


Unrest

by SilverCyanide (LemonFairy)



Series: Recovery [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonFairy/pseuds/SilverCyanide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say the first few days are the hardest. Grantaire hopes somehow they're right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unrest

Enjolras doesn’t leave until late on Sunday, even though Grantaire tells him he can leave later Friday night. He just rolls his eyes when Grantaire says he’s all right to be alone and looks pointedly at Grantaire’s still-trembling hands, so Grantaire gives in. When he does leave, laptop and duffle bag that Grantaire assumes Combeferre dropped off slung over his shoulder, it’s not without a warm pat on the shoulder and an, “I’ll see you on Tuesday at the meeting?” that Grantaire cannot refuse.

Monday, his first day alone, is definitely tougher than Grantaire anticipated. He doesn’t feel quite so sick anymore, but he’s gone from sleeping a lot to not sleeping at all, which means Grantaire does a lot of pacing. When he’s sitting down, trying to watch a movie marathon about cheerleaders because it’s what’s on, he can’t stop bouncing his leg and tapping his fingers. Everything still feels a little bit too much, and if he had the mental capacity to leave his apartment, Grantaire is sure he’d end up buying alcohol. He finally falls asleep for a couple of hours early on Tuesday morning, and when he gets up and showers he feels a little bit less raw, but everything is still a struggle.

Tuesday evening comes a little bit too quickly, but Grantaire tells himself he’s fine. He’s put on pants and everything, and so when he shows up in the back room of the Musain that Enjolras has long since claimed for their group, Grantaire hopes things can proceed as normal.

He doesn’t expect the way everyone who sees him freezes. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, the way pity and confusion radiates off of the people he considers friends. Without grace, Grantaire drops into the chair he usually occupies at the corner table in the back and props his feet, one knee up, on the chair next to him. A moment later, Bahorel drops down across from him holding two unopened bottles of water. He tosses one over to Grantaire who just manages to catch it and flops down into the chair across from him.

Though Grantaire won’t admit it, his tongue has been sandpaper for the past few days, so the water is a welcome relief. He downs a fourth of it quickly, but raises an eyebrow as Bahorel does the same.

“That’s water,” he says like it isn’t obvious. Bahorel sets the water down to clap.

“At least we know your brain’s not fried. Yes, indeed it is.” To prove the point, Bahorel takes another sip. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“I meant, why are  _you_  drinking water? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink water here.” Bahorel shrugs.

“Well I’m not gonna be an asshole who gets a beer now am I? I’d like to think you’ve got more faith in me than that.” Grantaire doesn’t know what he expected, but that wasn’t it. His eyebrows shoot up, surprise etched across his face.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh… um, thanks? You—really don’t have to do that. Like, really.”

“Bullshit,” Bahorel replies. “You’ve been sober like a week, R. Least we all can do is keep alcohol away for a little while.”

“Just because I can’t have the good things in life doesn’t mean you can’t.” It’s meant to sound snarky, but his voice catches a little. Bahorel ignores it.

“So, how’s it been?” Bahorel asks.. Grantaire twists the wrapper on his water bottle between his hands.

“It’s been…” Grantaire shrugs. Truthfully, it’s been hell: he can’t fall asleep and when he does, he wakes up half an hour later, sweating and craving a drink desperately. He’s terrified of his preliminary hearing in two days, and he’s terrified of what it’ll mean for the future. After all, nothing good ever happens to him, so it certainly won’t now.

But instead of saying that, he cracks a shit-eating grin and says, “’s good as it can be when you just wanna have a drink with your bros but can’t.” Bahorel smiles a little, but there’s tension behind it. Grantaire knows that Bahorel can read him like a book when it comes to these things—he was the first person to ever tell Grantaire to his face that he had a problem, and the first person to take him home on a bad night and clean him up. Not one for ostentatious emotional displays, Bahorel simply presses his foot to Grantaire’s beneath the table and nods.

“Well, you need help, you call me. Sorry I didn’t stop by this weekend, I wasn’t sure—”

“We’re beginning now,” Courfeyrac calls from the table at the head of the room where he, Combeferre, and Enjolras always set up. His voice carries well and people listen to him, so attention quickly turns to the trio. Enjolras begins to speak.

Grantaire tries to listen. He always does, despite what remarks Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre make— he likes being here, or at least not elsewhere, and he likes making commentary. They’re terribly wrong on a lot of things, sure, but that’s what Grantaire is there for: to correct them, loudly and continuously.

Unfortunately, his concentration is shot. Anything Enjolras says goes in one ear and out the other, and he only catches snippets of words. A headache is coming on from the lights, and though the physical tremors have mostly abated by this point, Grantaire feels shaky. He drinks the water, nearly spilling, but it’s at least a sensation he can focus on. He barely notices when the group pauses for a break until Joly and Bossuet are there, Joly sliding into the chair next to him and Bossuet standing behind him with his hands resting on Grantaire’s chair.

“Hello,” Joly says cheerfully, but there’s calculation in his eyes as he looks Grantaire up and down. “How’re you today?”

“Like a horse surrounded by sand,” Grantaire mutters dryly. Bossuet pats him on the shoulder.

“I’m sure it’ll get better,” Bossuet reassures, but there’s no oomf behind it: Grantaire remembers when he quit smoking last year, and how he still has days where he gets agitated and checks his pockets over and over. Grantaire sighs.

“Let us hope so, gentlemen,” he answers, with a mock-salute. The others laugh, and though it’s a little cautious, Grantaire appreciates it all the same.

The room reconvenes not long after, and Bossuet takes the final seat at their table. He and Joly pass soft comments back and forth, some serious and contemplative, some resulting in snickers; Bahorel joins in as well. Grantaire tries a few times, because he finds no greater joy in the world than making dick jokes out of some of Combeferre’s well-meaning phrases, but the sentences break off half way through and he never manages to regain them. What he does regain is the irritated almost-buzzing beneath his skin. The air in the back of the café feels thicker with every passing moment, and eventually it gets too be too much. Grantaire stands, grabs his coat, and exits the building.

It’s technically still winter, and though the day was warm enough, the night air is frigid and biting. Grantaire zips his jacket all the way up and jams his hands in the pockets, though they’re already freezing at the tips. But it’s better than being in that cramped, overly warm room, that’s a little musty, that smells like—

He’s been avoiding it all night, but the reality is there’s no way Grantaire can separate the Musain from alcohol. It smells like it, even when his friends aren’t having drinks, and just stepping in makes his craving for a drink that much stronger. His throat feels tight and dry. He cannot tell if his extremities are tingling from the cold or from the way his whole body is pressed into the  _want_. It’s like every aspect of his body wants the alcohol, not just his brain. Frustrated, Grantaire kicks the brick; it’s hard against his toes, and he swears, but the pain is sharp and bright and feels good.

Grantaire leans back against the wall, slouching against the cold façade. He watches his breath in front of him—in, out, in, out, focusing on the puff of white in front of him. He only snaps out of it when the door bangs open and a scarf-clad figure walks out. Warm air and bright light streams out, and that’s when Grantaire realizes he left his keys on the table inside. He ducks back inside to grab them.

People have moved about a bit, but he can still see Bahorel across the room at their table, still joined by Joly and Bossuet, as well as the addition of Feuilly’s dark curls. Grantaire approaches, feeling a little more together after being outside, and he can see his keys glinting next to Bahorel’s hand. He’s just about to ask someone to toss them to him when he sees Joly’s glass of wine.

Grantaire freezes. Bahorel clearly sees him out of the corner of his eye, and he’s already reaching for Grantaire’s keys, but Grantaire bolts.

He feels ridiculous as soon as he’s outside. He can’t even see his friend having a drink, something Joly does  _every week_ , without panicking. Jesus, when did he get so weak? He should have—

“Hey, R.” Bossuet touches his shoulder gently, and doesn’t comment when Grantaire flinches slightly. “These’re yours?” He hands the keys over, and Grantaire takes them with a nod. “Sorry ‘bout in there. Joly—well, all of us, really—had assumed you’d left.” Bossuet looks almost as awkward as Grantaire feels. He shrugs.

“’S fine—my fault. Sorry for… that,” Grantaire replies. “I’m uh—I’ll see you guys?”

Bossuet nods, and before Grantaire can escape, he pulls him into a hug. Grantaire’s arms come up stilted and delayed, but the hug itself feels good. “Don’t be a stranger,” Bossuet reiterates and Grantaire agrees before finally taking off for home.

 

By the time Grantaire returns to his cluttered apartment, it’s late enough to go to bed. So he tries. An hour later, no progress has been made toward sleep but his tossing and turning. Grantaire rolls out of bed onto the floor, grabs his laptop, and fires it up. He flips through a few pages he’s had up, then checks his email for the first time since early that morning. Squashed between two junk emails is an email from Combeferre with the subject line “Alcoholics Anonymous, et al.”

_Grantaire,_

_I hope today is finding you better than the past few, and I hope to see you at the meeting this evening. I will understand entirely should you wish to simply delete this email, but I occasionally end up on research binges without meaning to (I am sure this does not surprise you), and thought some of this could be of use to you._

_Attached is a list of local programs and their schedules (for those I was able to acquire), in the event you would be interested._

_Regardless of your next step, I wish you all the best in your recovery. If you ever need anything, please remember I am (and I am certain the rest of our friends are) willing to help you in any way possible._

_—Combeferre_

_AAetc.docx_

He doesn’t want to. Grantaire is sure of that—he would rather chew his own toes off than go to a meeting with a bunch of other strangers so he can hear how fucked up they are and so  _he_  can share how fucked up  _he_  is.

Grantaire opens the document anyway.

It’s extensive, far more extensive than Grantaire would be able to compile on his own without getting massively overwhelmed. Even looking at the document makes him feel a bit overwhelmed. But Grantaire scrolls through it all, and about three quarters of the way down he sees a group that meets Wednesdays from 7:30 to 8:30 at night just twenty minutes away. And as much as it would be like getting half his teeth pulled…

 _‘Is there anyone with a car who could drive me somewhere tomorrow evening, leaving around 7?’_  he texts to the group before he can back out of it.

Joly:  _Which direction?_

Courfeyrac:  _Depends where/how long if you need a ride back?? I have date night at 9_

Combeferre:  _Are you going to that 7:30 group?_

Combeferre:  _Sorry, that was out of line. I don’t have a car, but if I can help, let me know._

Enjolras:  _Yes. Just let me know the details. I will see you at seven?_

Grantaire types back to Enjolras only, fingers shaky, ‘ _Yes. It is the Richardson rec center basement, about 20 mins from here. 7:30-8:30 meeting. If that’s okay?’_

Enjolras simply replies,  _‘Okay, I will see you then. :)’,_ but it’s enough.

 

Grantaire sleeps on and off for three hours tops throughout the night, but he doesn’t get out of bed until just after noon when someone knocks on his door. He doesn’t put a shirt on, just answers the door in sweatpants, not caring who it is. Feuilly is standing there, hands in his pockets, his smile tight.

“Hey,” he says, “could we, uh, talk?”

Grantaire nods and scrubs a hand over his face. “Uh—yeah, yeah, sure. C’m in.” He holds the door open a bit wider so Feuilly can follow him in properly. “Make yourself at home; I’m gonna… go grab clothes.” Grantaire throws on the first shirt in his room that smells clean. When he comes back out, Feuilly is standing in the small kitchen inspecting the variety pack of tea on the counter that Combeferre brought over a few days prior.

“D’y’want anything?” Grantaire asks as he comes in. Feuilly shakes his head.

“Nah, thanks. I’m grabbin’ lunch on my way back.” Feuilly leans against the counter, and Grantaire sits on top of the table.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Feuilly pulls his hands out of his pockets. “Have you been to an AA meeting yet?” Grantaire tenses.

“Does it matter?”

“They recommend 90 meetings in 90 days when you’re starting.” Feuilly’s voice is softer than Grantaire expected. “I didn’t do it for NA, but I did for EDA and it’s… got its benefits.” Grantaire’s head snaps up and he stares without meaning to. Feuilly’s eyes are focused on the ground.

Grantaire clears his throat. His mouth is dry. “I’m, um, going to one tonight for the first time.” Feuilly looks up at him and smiles a little.

“Good. That’s good. The… first one is always kind of awkward but you… they’re good tools. Good people.” Grantaire nods.

“I didn’t know you…”

Feuilly shrugs. “I haven’t used in years,” Feuilly tells him, “but I had a pretty bad… eight month period when I was younger where I did, um…” The kitchen is quiet for a few long moments. “Sorry, it’s still—weird for me to talk about this with… you guys, the only people I’ve really shared with are Enjolras and Combeferre, and not in the same way, but—yeah, I, a while ago, I went through a, um, really bad period with, well, a lot of things but particularly heroin. Not my finest hour.” His hands are back in his pockets, and there’s a soft jingling. Feuilly pulls out his keys, cluttered with different things, and flips to a bronze circle. Grantaire reaches out without thinking, and Feuilly hesitantly hands the ring over. Grantaire traces his fingers over the roman numerals in the center.

“That’s my NA chip,” he says, though Grantaire can read the words on it. “My EDA one is on there somewhere, but it’s purple because I reset it whenever I, um, relapse.” Grantaire nods but doesn’t look at it; his head is still reeling with all of the information. “I know… a lot of people think they’re kind of stupid, but um, if your meeting gives them out, get a desire chip. And um, phone numbers of people if you feel comfortable talking to them, I’m—I’ve never been to AA, but I can only imagine it’s similar, and you’re… I’ll be honest: you’re going to feel like everyone is looking at you and judging you for being there. They’re not. 90% of them won’t even notice you’re new. But those who do are there to help you, so let them.”  

Grantaire nods and swallows with a little difficult. “Okay.” He nods a little. “Okay.” He hands the keys back, and Feuilly slips them in his pocket and then straightens up.

“I should get going, my lunch break’s not that long, but I just figured I’d stop by.” Feuilly doesn’t hug Grantaire, but they do bump fists. “There’re people here for you—always remember that,” he says, and then takes his leave. 

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I am still working on this project. If you enjoy, please subscribe to the series! :D Thanks so much so far guys. (Also, I am very much aware EDA does not have nearly enough chapters for a 90/90, but we're pretending this is a perfect world.)
> 
> ETA: I have been writing this as a series fic because I expect I'll add little drabbles at times, but would it make it easier for you as readers to track if I merged it into a chapterfic? Please let me know!


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